


Upon the gloaming

by lesoleiletlalune



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Inevitable use of google translate as I do not speak either Russian or Japanese, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesoleiletlalune/pseuds/lesoleiletlalune
Summary: In which Katsuki Yuuri is an omega, and tribulations follow naturally.





	1. His childish whims

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Reign of Rán](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850163) by [BrightCandleLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightCandleLight/pseuds/BrightCandleLight). 



> Re the debate on 'Yuuri or Yuri': the name double-up has made me go with the double u spelling of Katsuki Yuuri, although I know this contradicts how the creators of the show had it written.

The manner of his life was decided the moment the royal doctor checked between the baby’s legs. He likes to think his parents could afford to be joyful, then, even if he caught them by surprise. He has never quite found the courage to ask Mari if they displayed any regret that the only son and last child of Katsuki Toshiya would not succeed him to the throne.  
He doesn’t like to think on this subject. Whether or not he was as his parents wished, they have never been aught but good to him. He is rather a pampered prince. He has not been kept aside, like many a young omega, and forbidden hard activity. (In any case, his chosen love hardly clashes with expectations for his second gender. Dancing is suitably effeminate). At his wish, he had instructors from across the greater part of Asia brought to Court, bringing with them a combined weight of millennia of art. But the greatest find, he considers, emerged from closest to home. Okukawa Minako, though a native, had spent much of her time abroad. She was not long returned to Japan when the summons came.  
‘I have been as far as Italia,’ she says with bright eyes. ‘They have dancing there that comes from their neighbour, a thing they call “ballet”. I think you will like it.’

 

Liking is too small a way to describe what ballet becomes to him. It is an obsession. He throws his legs freely, high enough that any skirt would reveal them. He is introduced to the world of leggings, fabric that is made to stretch around his growing muscles and give with every movement. Such freedom is as indecent as it is wonderful. He insists on thick cloth, so thick that he sweats as soon as he dresses in summer.  
He learns that dancing need not be as serene and refined as the fan twirling of his homeland. He learns to launch through the air like a new year’s firework and land so that he can carry himself forward to another. He learns how to turn himself once, twice, thrice, his eyes trained to one feature of the wall to balance him. He learns to dance to waltz time.  
Once, Minako insisted that everyone try a Western-style ball. The disastrousness of the event was only eclipsed by its hilarity. Mari stood on Yuuri’s feet more times than he could count.

 

His first heat comes when he is thirteen, and it is not an exaggeration to say that it nearly kills him.  
He spends twelve days wrapping himself in blankets, desperate for some kind of contact even as the temperature in his makeshift nest climbs to an inferno. His mother, in charge of enticing him out, cries more than once as she tries to coax him to eat. (He falls into a pattern of refusing, since his stomach only seems to reject anything it is given).

 

At sixteen, Katsuki Yuuri is dangerously beautiful. Dangerous, Toshiya’s wife warns him. He is the perfect amalgamation of plumpness and health. He dances with all the strength and awe that his male body can give him, but he is graced with hips that hoard fat the way a woman’s do. The result is breathtaking. She has noticed, because it is a mother’s business to notice, that he is attracting eyes. Even as he walks; he does not dance much in front of the people other than his family, because he is too shy, but they still catch traces of it in his walk, the carriage of his head. Her son is still in a state of childlike naïvety, she thinks, and all the savagery of her mother’s love wants to preserve that – but she knows not how.  
‘He must be married soon.’  
‘I know, dear.’ He gives Hiroko a tired smile. ‘But to whom?’  
‘You cannot want for offers.’  
‘No.’

 

He is sent away to the mountains. Yuuri’s quiet confusion at being cast out does not last long. Yuuko, his everlasting friend, finds a wonderful new sport.  
‘Sometimes the locals will affix carved bone under their boots and slide across the frozen lake. Have you seen them?’  
It is cold, so cold, this far north. They are come in the dead of winter when there is little fresh snow, but the blankets lie deep and lazy. Of all the ladies in his retinue, only Minako refuses to try.  
‘Ice should be appreciated in the abstract, like any other painting.’  
There is a lot of giggling involved in finding their feet. Yuuko’s new husband, the heir to the title of this province, has time to appraise them.  
‘You’ll never move fast if you stand with your legs locked, Katsuki. Forget your ballet lessons.’  
He is much kinder to his wife, of course. In time his jealousy at the nature of the omegas’ friendship fades. Once, when he was very young, Yuuri had imagined he was in love with Yuuko; then he learned what adults regarded as the act of love. (He spent the next week avoiding her and feeling vaguely nauseated).

 

They have six weeks of red cheeks and eyes squinted against the cold before the message comes: Japan and China are at war. Another week before Toshiya’s simple directive. ‘Come home.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback would be highly appreciated.
> 
> Also, can you tell I'm a ballet dancer?


	2. Assignation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm bad at making long chapters, I guess I have to make up by updating regularly?
> 
> Chapter title is now a pun. I imagine this will lower me in your eyes :)

His father explains it quite reasonably. He does not want war. The aggression is all on the part of the Chinese. They see Japan as small, weak, and ready for the taking.  
‘Nikiforov.’ Yuuri practices the name again and again, until it rolls out of his mouth without tripping. He fears that the anxiety of a moment will take even that small understanding away from him.  
‘You must be aware. Though there is no great love between the Russians and the Chinese, he does not have to participate in our conflict. Consider yourself betrothed, but not promised. There is much that he and I cannot arrange over so long a distance.’  
‘May I ask what you know of him?’  
‘He has succeeded in uniting a large group of disparate factions into a nation with very little in the way of trouble. That, and his writing, tell me he is clever. He is also not so arrogant as to be rude.’  
In the end, he calls upon his mother to hear the worst.  
‘A string of lovers, all beta. No, dear. I think he is a good man.’

 

‘We need him as an ally. You can’t ruin this.’  
That’s Mari, being tactful as usual. She sits at his window, still in her hunting garb. The siblings are everything the other cannot hope to be. Mari has none of the traditional elegance asked of a woman, but she is excused. One day she will be a queen, and not of the kind that paints their faces.  
‘I hope I won’t.’  
Yuuri may have been born to nobility, but he has never grown accustomed to the orders he is supposed to issue. His family have not helped him, really. They have been too understanding, and he too indecisive. Maybe the total lack of autonomy under an alpha is what he needs.  
Mari huffs. ‘You could try sounding a little less like you were going to your grave.’  
‘I’m sorry!’  
That makes her cringe. ‘Don’t apologise to me. I’m not your audience. He is.’  
He thinks telling her that he’s scared will only make it worse, so he hangs his head and waits for her to leave.

 

Russia. He’s not stupid, but he’s never cared overly for politics. He will do very little to shape history, or so he always thought.  
What does he know of them? The country, the people, their existence is ice, their subsistence is liquor. That’s a rhyme he heard, he forgets where. Is Nikiforov a cruel man? He does not think many good leaders are kind. His own father is kind, and that kindness has lead the Chinese to think that Japan cannot withstand their attack. (Although they are right to think so, why else is his father looking for this alliance?).  
Yuuri must also consider that Nikiforov will simply take him and leave for a country far away without ever making good on his promises. Or worse: Toshiya has exposed his underbelly in the bid. There is a slim possibility Russia and China could unite and bring hell upon them.  
Nikiforov. He fills the omega’s every waking moment.  
Translators and tutors gather at the palace. Yuuri knows no more than a handful of Latin, and he is unsure if Nikiforov speaks even that.  
It is a little humiliating, to have to learn the alphabet again.


	3. The time spent waiting

‘You need to look beautiful.’ Hiroko stands above him while his retinue watches. ‘Why did we let you cut your hair?’  
He does not remind her that long hair is impossible to keep securely fastened when he does the kind of steps ballet requires. Once, Minako mentioned offhandedly that the Italian women she saw used a thousand metal pins. He said that he would prefer to have his head free of the weight, and she agreed.  
‘It’s far too late to bemoan that now, I suppose.’ She watches as a whalebone brush passes through his hair. ‘We will have to hope he does not dislike being reminded of your maleness.’  
‘If he does?’  
She tilts his head back, fingers resting on Yuuri’s jaw. Her gaze is proud, and he cannot bear it.  
‘With eyelashes such as these, it will hardly be your undoing.’  
Finally, he is freed.  
‘Still, grow it as you can.’

 

He should be grateful he has had even this much time to prepare. Being late autumn, the Sea of Okhotsk is accumulating ice flows; Nikiforov’s missive warned that his party will sail with caution, choosing to lose time rather than men. Yuuri privately wonders at his confidence. He thinks of the sea as a wild beast, the kind that plucks from its guests at whim. Perhaps the natural hubris of an alpha male, compounded from birth by his title, has installed a kind of psychosis.  
He is not so frightened for himself that he cannot find the compassion to pray, every day, for fair weather.

 

‘That’s him!’ Yuuko points out of the window rather uselessly. The cloud of dust is growing unmissable, thrown by a thousand hooves. Of course Nikiforov had come with a large party, both as boast and as insulation.  
As they near Yuuri uses his eyes to trace the ranks of riders and wolf banners inwards, spiral after spiral, to be sure of the centre. A flower analogy seems inept: the pattern is too unloving, too studied. Suits of darkened, hardboiled leather seem to indicate his personal guards. Within them are only a handful of other heads. Straw, snowy, grey, grey. That is the last ring. Then another snowy. The Tsar has hair and eyelashes the colour of sleet, he has been told, for all that he is a young man. Word also has it that he is handsome - or that is what Yuuri whittles the lavish praises sung in his name to. 

  

He sits quietly while they make the most of his cheekbones. His lips are reddened, his eyes widened with kohl. Europeans have very big eyes, he knows.  
When his face is painted, his mother stands back. ‘Good. And the crimson kimono.’  
He starts to object, for the first time ‘– could the colour not seem a little assuming?–’  
‘In their culture, red means desire. If he can be influenced, he will be.’ She waves her hand. ‘It is a good choice.’  
It’s bad form, but he shrinks into himself. He tries not to. He tries to hold his spine straight and his eyes in line with the mirror, but every glance of himself he obtains has him fluttering in the depths of panic. What if Nikiforov doesn’t take a liking to him? What if he does?  
When the last sash is tight his mother takes in the full effect.  
‘Why does a piece of cloth look bigger than you, Yuuri?’  
He chokes on his words. She sighs.  
‘Perhaps blue.’


	4. The wolf, in two parts - part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for a chapter that's broken the thousand word barrier! I feel obliged to warn you that this pace of updating may not continue for much longer. I'm almost out of editing what I'd semi-written before I gathered the courage to start posting.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments this has been receiving! Each one sends me over the moon

Nikiforov is upon their doorstep soon enough, and he must be greeted. The Emperor stands aft, his family making a semicircle about him. Yuuri, positioned directly behind his father, must peer over Toshiya’s shoulder to see the oncoming guests.  
The crunch of boots on stone makes him wince. He imagines these Russians with their heavy shoes indoors, smearing mud and soil on the tatami mats. He has heard that some of them cover their floors with reeds and piss on them.  
In the end the party stops just inside the first hall, and he watches a small flurry of activity as the inner ring presumably finds more suitable shoes. Yuuri is parched, and trembling.  
‘You reek of fear,’ Mari hisses. ‘If you can’t control yourself, could you not at least have found some cologne?’  
He has already doused his wrists and his neck liberally, but he turns to let Yuuko do so again.

 

Nikiforov commands every head in the room, even of his own party. How could he not? His cloak of dark fur and gold throws the paleness of his features into stark relief. And what features. The aquiline nose gives way to a delicate line of lips. The Tsar's cheeks are drawn sharp by the line of bone at below his eyes. The eyes themselves - Yuuri stops himself from trying to describe their colour, for surely it is the life endeavour of a poet.  
When the cloak is shed, Nikiforov seems to grow taller, rather than being dwarfed without its presence. An athlete's frame is revealed, a suggestion of muscle underneath forming the perfect taper from shoulders to his hips. In short, Yuuri is quietly, desperately, awed.   
‘Viktor II of Russia presents his greetings to Toshiya I of Japan, and thanks his nation for the hospitality he has so far received.’  
It is said twice, first in the language of the hosts, and then for the understanding of the guests. Both monarchs bow simultaneously and to the same angle. Yuuri notices Nikiforov’s eyes flicker upwards to keep track of the exact timing. Then there is a little conversation.   
‘I must compliment the manner in which your people craft buildings. The emphasis on clean lines – there is nothing like it in the west. The best of Europe is made gaudy.’  
‘You are too kind. Your own land is famous for its inspired works of architecture.’  
‘Ah yes, perhaps you think of Saint Basil’s Cathedral? It is a sight like no other, truly. But seeing your temples has driven home the power of a simple theme, done to perfection. We must take note.’  
‘If you are so inclined, I will have a tour of some of the region’s best prepared.’  
‘Nothing would give me more delight.’  
And now two hundred people are studying Katsuki Yuuri as he steps forward to meet his affianced. He has been warned to expect a culture that is more physically forward when genders or second genders are opposed. He has not been warned to expect a hand to close over his and lift it until it brushes the coral lips. Nikiforov’s eyes linger on him as straightens, startlingly pale as the rest of him. ‘It is good to meet you,’ he says, in accented Japanese.  
‘Thank you. I feel likewise.’ He replies in Russian that is awful, he’s sure. His heart is dashing against his ribcage. The alpha may as well have set his skin on fire. His every sense of privacy has already been calmly invaded. Where the tip of the man’s nose had touched him, he quivers. Did Nikiforov take the opportunity to smell the gland?  
In a small mercy, that is their linguistic duty done, and the translation may resume.  
‘I hope you had a pleasant journey?’  
‘As pleasant as any seafaring may be. We avoided the worst of the storms.’  
‘I’m glad.’  
The rest of the introductions are made. The inner ring contains a motely mix of ages, from a distinctly cold nephew (the straw-headed man, or rather, boy) to a maternal uncle. Yuuri desperately tries to memorise sets of syllables: Feltsman, Babichev, Popovich and Pliesetsky. Nikiforov apologises for the absence of his mother: consensus among his doctors had it that she was not fit for the journey.  
Toshiya gestures. ‘If it pleases you, we may offer a hearty meal as the first of many among friends.’

 

Yuuri is not surprised by the dining arrangements, but that is not to say he’s pleased. His lot is to sit facing Nikiforov. He wonders how he will conjure a full banquet-length conversation. Even Yuuko calls him quiet.  
The first dish, hōtō, passes with the Emperor and the Tsar speaking again, leaving Yuuri free to his thoughts for the most part. He notices a few askance glances, which eventually drive him to turn to the boy at his elbow – Pliesetsky, he thinks. ‘Is there something about the way my people eat that is upsetting?’  
‘You drink from the bowl.’  
It is not a question so much as an accusation.  
‘Yes?’  
‘We consider that disgusting.’  
‘Oh.’  
The grey-haired man sitting opposite Pliesetsky issues something that sounds like a reprimand and receives a curt response. The other man now seems to see it as his duty to represent the nation well.  
‘Perhaps your way is better. There is so much wasted at the bottom of the bowl that cannot be got at neatly by spoon.’  
The forced discourse dies quickly, but not without awkwardness on both parts. For his part, Yuuri tries to disengage his mind from the pressing silence in their alcove and watches interesting scenes play in his imagination. Who will be next to ask for Mari’s hand? Many men (fools that they are) entertain the notion that her womanliness will somehow compensate for her second gender, and go about trying to bring her to heel. He and Yuuko have made a game of it, watching these suitors dash against the spines of her tongue.  
The second course comes, and his mood lifts a little. It is katsudon, praise be. He is lifting his chopsticks to his mouth as he catches sight of Pliesetsky’s confusion.  
‘How do I feed myself with these –’ the translator pauses, and clearly chooses to substitute words ‘– utensils?’  
‘As I do.’ Yuuri turns his hand over, trying to be helpful. ‘Your thumb makes a grip with your longest two fingers.’  
Pliesetsky copies the shape easily, but not the movement. He goes to capture a piece of pork only to have it slide away. He tries again, visibly more disgruntled, with the same result. By now, heads are turning, the Russians seeking someone to copy, and his display is garnering considerable interest. Pliesetsky makes another two attempts as his face reddens before casting one of the pair down and using a single thread of bamboo to skewer the meat. It is almost at his mouth when the trembling hold gives way and it flops back into the dish.  
Yuuri has clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to force his shaking lungs to be quiet. He cannot help but be reminded of the time the surface of koi pond froze last winter, and he watched a temple cat become increasingly more bewildered as it struck out at the shapes dancing not an inch below.  
Pliesetsky lets out a sullen growl. ‘Whatever happened to the simple usefulness of a knife and fork?’  
‘Perhaps they consider them disgusting?’ Out of nowhere, Nikiforov is leaning into their conversation. There is a spark in his eye that makes Yuuri certain the word choice is not accidental, and he blushes to know he was being watched.  
Pliesetsky’s glare is mutinous. ‘Perhaps they want us to starve.’  
Nikiforov’s laughter almost drowns the conversion. He then addresses himself to Yuuri. ‘I had wondered about bringing my little cousin. As you can see, he has yet to appreciate the art of diplomacy. I hope he will not cause too much offense.’  
‘Not at all.’ He mentally classifies Pliesetsky as a disaster in waiting. ‘I notice you yourself are faring quite well,’ Yuuri says. ‘Have you perhaps eaten in the Eastern style before?’  
‘Yes, in fact, in the course of some negotiations with the Chinese.’  
Yuuri’s gut twists, although he works to keep it from his face.  
‘I feel obliged to say I did not particularly like them.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was legitimately cackling as I imagined Yurio using chopsticks for the first time. Dare I ask what you think of my Viktor? (not that he's mine) (oh, if only)


	5. The wolf - part two

‘How far has your journeying taken you?’  
‘The length and breadth of my homeland, of course, which is in itself no mean feat. Then as far west as Germany, and as far south as Iran, once. And now, as far east as your nation. With no eye to false compliments, I say that I have preferred Japan so far of all the places I have visited.’  
‘That is – a great honour,’ Yuuri manages. ‘What is it about our land that makes you so enamoured?’  
‘There are many things I could choose to draw attention to individually, but I think I would lose the wonder of the whole. It is simply a perfect amalgam of conditions – the clime, the beauty, the sincerity – the people and the flora, all are so well made. I am already imagining I shall call again.’  
He has a brief moment of hoping that he might be permitted to return also, and see his family again. The idea that they will not be forever lost to him does a little to lift the crushing loneliness Yuuri pictures for his future.  
‘But what of you, Yuuri? – May I call you that?’  
‘That is fine.’ It is decidedly forward, but he guesses it to be accidental. There is nothing cunning about the Tsar’s gaze.  
‘Excellent. Forgive me the interruption. How much have you travelled, Yuuri?’  
‘Ah. Very little, especially in comparison to you.’  
Nikiforov tilts his head slightly, as though the answer will not do.  
‘I have never left my own country. The farthest north I have been is Dewa, and that is the most exciting story I have to tell.’  
‘Do you wish for more adventure?’  
Yuuri has been dreading a question of this kind. He must choose between a truthful answer, or a favourable one. Both have the possibility of doing ill: if he says yes, he sets himself closer to a man who clearly has a taste for travel, and takes as charge a lie he must sustain forever; a no is a covert rejection. Both could have far-reaching consequences, but only one brings the possible conflict to the present: is it any wonder he chooses to procrastinate?  
‘Yes, perhaps one day.’  
‘I’m glad. I will admit to having many a strange whim. The most outlandish, I think, is to see more of the British Empire than their ambassadors.’  
‘You would go to England?’  
‘Perhaps. I am not so foolish that I will not let myself be curbed by reason as the affairs of Russia demand. It is such a massive distance.’  
Yuuri’s head is spinning from how casually a trip beyond the borders of the alpha’s known world is planned. He is spared more talk by the end of the meal, as announced by Toshiya standing.  
‘I think our guests may be glad to avail themselves of our excellent bathing facilities after their long journey. Perhaps we shall adjourn?’  
Nikiforov gives his agreement. As the assembly is dispersing, he gestures that he wants a moment’s word with Toshiya.  
‘Have you any plans to speak of state matters today?’  
‘Not at all! It is an ill host that demands business on the first day. If you would like to see more of our gardens, you would be most welcome.’  
‘Thank you.’ The Russian directs his glance at his affianced. ‘Perhaps you could spare me a little of your time later, Yuuri? I fancy a tour of your home.’  
‘Of course.’ The omega bows and absents himself quickly, to deal with the panic he feels at having to spend hours as a stranger’s main source of company.

 

It is in the strange hour of cooling before dusk when Nikiforov calls for him again. Yuuri has been lightly bathed and redressed by now, in green and silver. He finds the Tsar also wearing the dress of his host country, a vivid display of red. Pliesetsky is with him again, as well as a man Yuuri thinks was called Babichev, and a woman a few years Yuuri’s senior.  
‘You fled luncheon so swiftly,’ the Tsar says. He seeks out Yuuri’s hand again and softly but firmly brings it to his lips. ‘I will forgive your misstep this once, but never again. You force me to be rude if I do not kiss your hand on both the meeting and the parting.’ As he talks his eyes crinkle, and Yuuri knows he is being teased. Still, the faintest hint of malice from this man has the omega itching to bare his throat. (The sweet, low cadence of his voice is no help).  
‘I will not forget.’  
‘Good. Shall we walk?’

 

They end up on a path to the stables, Nikiforov expressing a wish to see some of their famous horses from the north. Yuuri manages to wrangle the name of the woman – Mila, a daughter of Babichev – without betraying his complete confusion, he hopes.  
The stables have clearly been busy, needing to make the space for the Russian convoy. Several creatures are still tethered to rails outside, awaiting a home.  
Suddenly massive shape detaches from a horse’s flank and comes sprinting toward them, and Yuuri shrieks. He knows immediately that he has made an error by the expressions on the foreigners' faces, which range from concern to contempt. Nikiforov steps forward hastily and snaps his fingers, altering the trajectory of its cannonball rush.  
As it nears them, Yuuri’s racing heart slows and he curses his weak eyesight. It is only a dog, albeit larger than he has ever seen. It races, pink tongue lolling out, ears flapping like mad flags, and nigh throws itself on its master. Nikiforov laughs and kneels to take the shaggy face in his hands, saying something soft, indistinguishable. Then he turns to his betrothed. ‘You do not have dogs like these in Japan?’  
‘No,’ Yuuri says quickly. ‘I was confused. Its fur is strange.’  
He does not want to compare the curled fluff to sheep’s wool, in case this is offensive.  
‘Is it not? He does not look much like his wild cousins. He is a very special dog. My father was given his sire from the King of France.’ Nikiforov pauses. ‘Would you like to pet him? I can vouch for his good manners.’  
‘Thank you,’ Yuuri stutters. He reaches his hand out slowly, just in case, but the dog does not seem inclined to bite him. It blinks its brown eyes and waggles its tail as he brushes his fingers through the fur at its shoulder. To his surprise, it is as silken as a woman’s hair.  
The dog twists suddenly to impart a friendly lick on his hand and Nikiforov laughs again. ‘Makkachin likes you.’  
‘He’s very soft.’  
‘I have him brushed daily. He is such a precious creature.’ A moment. ‘I am going to be very forward for a moment, and hope that if I make some grave mistake of etiquette you will forgive me.’  
‘Ah?’ Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. The question is horribly open-ended. If this is a device to try and earn some kind of physical favour, he will have to vehemently turn the Russian down and notify his father –  
‘Is there any possibility Makkachin would be permitted to be indoors with me? I worry for him, you see. He pines if he is alone for long.’  
‘Oh.’ So much for his sudden anxiety, and then creeping joy, that he might have found a very reasonable cause for breaking off the arrangement. Stupid, stupid. ‘I would think so, as long as he is quite clean. There are a number of pets kept within palace rooms.’  
‘That is wonderful news. I knew he could not bear the months in Russia without me, but neither is he very suited to sleeping in the stables as another dog might.’ Nikiforov gives the hound an absent-minded scratch behind the year. ‘There are some cultures which think it demeans a house to allow an animal shelter.’  
‘I see. No, we see the gods in our creatures, and so they are welcome.’  
He turns to the dog. ‘ты пойдешь со мной.’ (‘You are coming with me’)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke the chapter 'the wolf' into two parts, but I had to keep the same title, because Viktor's crest is a wolf and these two are his introduction, but also because Makkachin's the other wolf... it was funny in my head.
> 
> On the off chance there are any Russian speakers out there, how did I do? The small part of me interested in linguistics wouldn't allow for a simple google translate, I did end up looking up informal v formal pronouns etc.


	6. A measure

Yuuri speaks as he might never have before, until the tissues of his throat ache. Nikiforov asks a thousand questions. None individually are made probing, but he is terrified that in their totality, they will make a measure of him.  
‘What do you like to do? A you an artist, Yuuri? A singer?’  
If he proffers dancing, he risks being asked for a demonstration – he can already feel it, the eyes pressing across the lines his clothes would reveal, maybe delving between his thighs –  
‘I know a little calligraphy.’  
That prompts a discussion of the merits of a westernised alphabet versus eastern characters; whether a written language is better to be structured around simplicity or art.  
The Russian’s talk never ceases. He is a clever man, and fairly insightful. Moreover, he seems willing enough to offer himself up for scrutiny, based on the proud (but not, apparently, ill-fitting) belief that nothing about his person could be found deeply objectionable.  
‘I wonder if I could ask you about your hair?’  
‘My hair?’ Yuuri puts his hand up to check that the growth scraped off his neck is still in place. It is. ‘What about it?’  
‘It seems as though you might have had it shortened, for some time. Is that a fashion? I haven’t seen such on any other of the women at your court.’  
He resists the urge to curl into himself and lies again. ‘It was a whim, more than anything. I had been a little irritated with the length of it.’  
‘Yet the cut must have been drastic.’ Again, the eyes rake him, perhaps trying to work out the span of hair he must have shed.  
‘Any less would have mitigated the problem, not freed me from it.’  
He sees amusement dawning on Nikiforov’s face.  
‘Have I misspoken?’  
‘No, not at all. But I am inclined to think we make a tale of opposites.’  
‘I don’t take your meaning.’  
‘Perhaps not. Would you like an explanation? I feel bound to warn you it will be lengthy.’  
Yuuri’s brow furrows. ‘I am a little curious, but I don’t wish to intrude.’  
A hand waves the comment away. ‘You undoubtedly noticed the strange colour, or rather lack thereof, of my hair. Early greying is a well-known family tendency, but my case beset me startlingly early. I was fourteen when it started fading from a hue like my cousin’s.’ He gestures to Pliesetsky, who sports an unpleasant expression at being mentioned. ‘It’s not so strange for men to have long hair in our culture, and so I did, for most of my youth. I was quite fond of it, in fact. But the deadness of it, coupled with my lateness to broaden out, irritated my father. During his fevered ravings he called me my sister’s ghost.’  
Yuuri’s hand comes up to cover his mouth. He shouldn’t have asked, surely could have mustered the wit to avoid such a damning topic –  
‘I feel no shame in telling you this, or any other person. He wasn’t a madman by nature. It was the typhus. St Petersburg was riddled with it, that winter. It took my baby brother as well.’ He paused for breath. ‘When he died, it was assumed as a matter of course that I would live as if those last days never happened. But you see, I am something of a contrarian. I had it cut the morning of my coronation.’  
There was too much in that speech to be dissected all at once. A sister who must have died young; the lilting way Nikiforov spoke; the strange, Gothic distortions playing out in his mind.  
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’  
He says the words and knows, with a self-contempt that boils in his gut, that they cannot be enough.  
‘Thank you.’ Nikiforov purses his lips for a moment, uncharacteristically silent. ‘But please, don’t be distressed on my account. It was only meant to be an interesting story. My hair has a saga behind it, you see?’ He lifts his fingers to it, finding a strand to peer at in the light of the dying sun. ‘If it were not perfectly grey before I started speaking, I am sure it would be now.’  
Yuuri watches him for a moment, unsure of how to respond. The glibness is some kind of shield, he thinks, although as he watches Nikiforov flick the fringe away with an unforced curve of his lips, he wonders. Perhaps he is simply a man with great emotional fortitude, able to rebound from calamity to his next effort.  
In the end, Yuuri is in no position to begin work at dismantling the shield, if shield there is. He feels no guilt in setting the matter aside, for now: even the purely omegan, maternal side of his brain can see that he is too far distant from the conflict to be of any help, should he try to intervene (later, though, as a wife, a mate –)  
‘I would call it silver, rather than grey.’  
The Tsar smiles. ‘I have been told both that it is flattering and that it is hideous. Does that make you of the former camp?’  
The blood rushes to Yuuri’s cheeks. How can he ask such things so calmly?  
‘I will tell you quite frankly that I am a vain man. I preferred gold.’  
It startles him into laughing. It is so comic, so deliberately engineered to cheer him, that it works in spite of his indignation that _he_ is meant to be the healer of wounds.

 

Yuuri meets Nikiforov at the first meal next morning with a single certainty from all his hours of musing: fairness demands that he must offer, among the banter and politeness, a single, deeply truthful part of himself.  
‘I have been meaning to ask: does St Petersburg have a ballet?’  
‘Of course! I defy all of Europe to produce better than our _Ballet Impérial_.’ He mentally files the name to ask Minako as Nikiforov continues. ‘I confess myself a little surprised the Japanese have heard of ballet. I suppose you will think me unworldly for that.’  
‘Not at all. It came in a roundabout fashion. I have always been interested in all forms of dance, and I had the good fortune to find a teacher who had studied in the Italian style.’  
‘That is remarkable.’ Yuuri steels himself for the request. ‘Have you heard, then, of some of our native dances?’  
‘I –’ he blinks in surprise. Nikiforov will not take an opportunity to pry? ‘I think not. My knowledge of western traditions is sadly limited.’  
‘Today will be full of negotiations, but tomorrow – I will teach you a Mazurka.’ The Russian smiles with a childlike excitement. ‘The rhythm is a little strange, but it makes for such a lively dance. It goes one-a-two-three-one-and-two-three.’ He taps it into his other hand. ‘I think you will like it. It is hard not to like.’ Then he laughs. ‘See, I am also an admirer of dance. I am being carried away by my enthusiasm.’  
‘I would like to learn,’ Yuuri says. ‘You are quite sure I will not be disrupting you?’  
The two leaders have a great deal to discuss.  
‘I cannot imagine I will have the strength to dance for the whole day.’  
He gets the urge then, to tease; to say that Nikiforov’s grey hair is perhaps not so inaccurate, if he cannot keep pace with a sixteen-year-old. It shocks him. The words come from a place of great fondness, that he thought was reserved for his family and Yuuko.  
Of course, he cannot say anything of the sort.  
‘I should perhaps mention, you will need a skirt that lets your feet go quite free. In my land the peasant folk shorten theirs a little, and the gentry have layered cloth so that the longest, visible shell sits out from the body.’  
Gods, his cheeks are burning again. He has an idea of how the Tsar has come to know the anatomy of a woman’s skirt so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This took forever to write and I'm not sure it's what I wanted, but it at least puts me where I wanted to be. Penny for your thoughts?


	7. Sartorial propriety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, this chapter has come incredibly slowly compared to the ones before it. I will endeavour to get the pace more consistent!

‘I hope you are finding everything to your liking.’  
‘Absolutely so.’  
Viktor gives silent thanks that this meeting will take place upon chairs. His knees are thoroughly unused to having to bear his weight as he sits, and the acclimatisation is a little painful. Perhaps, he thinks sourly, he is growing old.  
‘I fear your good food will spoil me. Never have I fought so hard to restrain myself to a small figure.’  
‘I would consider it shame upon my cooks if that were not so. As you can see, years of temptation have made me fat.’  
Privately, he does think the Emperor a little fat, but of course he cannot say so; he goes for humour. ‘I think that is too unflattering a term. You are quite comfortable.’  
This receives a genial smile. ‘I was pleased to see the rapport building between yourself and my son.’  
The Emperor is no fool, for all that he is generally thought to be kind. His father’s instinct will have him stand in the way of Viktor’s path to Yuuri, if tests of wit and skill he cannot pass.  
He cannot be crude, or even allude to the omega’s body, on so little acquaintance. Nor would talking of any kind of future he envisioned be proper. (He does think, and he does wonder. There has been a great deal of shyness so far, but Viktor cannot imagine but that beneath it, Katsuki Yuuri is still quietly serious. Viktor is not so immune to his faults he cannot see that he is sometimes a little frenetic. Yuuri is in the style of the partner he needs).  
‘I was delighted to hear that he is a connoisseur of dance. In that aspect, we are very alike.’  
‘His teachers say he is an apt scholar. He once made allusion to a compendium he wished to bring about, of all the dances of the known world. He has penned a few short works on the Japanese and Korean traditions separately, and they were very good – at least, to my untrained eye.’  
Viktor briefly considers trying to gain hold of any of these texts, before remembering that they are unlikely to have been translated. He is growing deeply curious of Yuuri’s true scope of knowledge. Clearly he had under-represented himself this morning: whether due to bashfulness or design, Viktor does not know.  
‘I hope to see him persevere,’ the Emperor continues. ‘He is too clever to enjoy idleness.’  
He receives the injunction calmly. It is a tactic reserved for weak alphas, to cage their mate and crush them (a foul trick, to force obedience from a personality stronger than their own).  
‘That is excellent. There can be no worse suffering for an artist than stagnation.’  
There it is, the slight bob of head in acquiescence.  
‘Should we perhaps move to matters of state?’

 

-

 

Yuuri gives the dress requirements to a perplexed Yuuko.  
‘Your ballet clothes are giving enough, but I cannot imagine –’  
‘No,’ Yuuri agrees.  
‘And nothing else would let you move.’ She huffs. ‘We can hardly make one anew for tomorrow. Minako told me they use whale bone in the bodice.’  
Yuuri blinks. ‘Minako. Is it possible she would have kept anything of use?’  
‘It would be ten years out of fashion by now.’  
‘Have you a better idea?’  
‘You could go naked, I suppose. He’d be sure to like it.’  
‘That’s enough!’ Yuuri wails, covering his face.  
His childhood friend presses with a devilish grin. (He wouldn’t bide to have any other of his staff speak to him like this, but Yuuko is more like his sister than Mari). ‘It won’t do to be embarrassed on your wedding night. Your husband has every right to see you –’  
‘Just go and ask Minako!’  
The seconds he has to calm his churning stomach are not enough. Yuuko loves Takeshi and his mother loves his father, so it cannot be so very bad. It is a kind of stage fright, he tells himself.  
Minako arrives in a rush on Yuuko’s arm, apologies tumbling from her lips. Her western clothing is long gone, was in tatters by the time she arrived home. She repeats Yuuko's comments, that anything she could salvage would be over a decade old.  
‘Please, don't fret. It was a wild hope. But I’ll recruit you to the search, if you have nothing else pressing. We are struggling.’  
'It needn't be so hard,' she protests. 'You merely need to ask them.'  
'Who - the Russians,' Yuuri completes himself as his stomach flops. 'I cannot do it. It would be beyond embarrassing, asking for charity.'  
'That's pessimism,' Yuuko chides. 'If said rightly, it will be a good joke.'  
'And I am such a great wit.'  
'With that face you are.' She sticks her tongue out at him. 'Come on, were are drinking tea with the Russian women at midday. It is a perfect time to ask.'  
He heaves a deep sigh, knowing the idea is embedded in her mind. 'Who would I ask?'  
'Not that Baranovskaya woman, for sure. She must be a foot taller than you.'  
'Hm.'  
That's a little sore. He was late to grow as a child, and he's never quite escaped the fear of being short.  
'That was not - oh, I've got it! The Tsar's cousin - was it Babicheva? She has been very pleasant, so far.'  
He says it like a reflex. 'But she's an alpha.'  
'That means nothing when all their women dress the same.' Yuuko peers at his lowered eyes. 'Unless you are saying you are too frightened to ask? I will do it for you, Yuuri, if it is so unsettling.'  
'I'm not a coward.'  
'I know.' 

 

Babicheva, it transpires, treats the event as though it were trivial, sisters sharing clothes.  
‘Let me have a guess at your style. You would prefer something beautiful, but not meant to draw the eye more than its fair share? I have a gown of the sort, in lavender and grey. The lace! – Oh, you should try it directly after this. A little needlework may be required, to shape the bodice to your needs.’  
‘I am indebted,’ Yuuri says. ‘But please, do not rework the dress at all on my account. I would not have it spoiled for your future use.’  
She waves her hand. ‘I will make it my gift to you, Princess.’*  
Yuuri catches himself before he gapes, fish-mouthed. There can be several explanations for this behaviour: that the dress she proffers is of little value, that she is truly a giving woman, or that Babicheva hopes to gather his favour in case of later wars of factions. He discards the first option, and it has nothing to do with the sincerity of her smile. Everything about Babicheva’s person has a tinge of arrogance. This is not a woman who owns dresses that could do her discredit.  
Yuuri cannot show any public belief except that her meaning was the second, but still he chooses his words to end a possible obligation. ‘Your generosity knows no bounds, Princess. I hope you will take one of my kimono in return, which can be of your choosing.’  
She bows as well she may while seated. ‘It would be my delight.’

 

Through physical demonstrations, a translator, and some muffled laughter, Babicheva’s servant teaches Yuuko the process of lacing stays. He catches bits of it, that because he is not so broad as a woman “topward” there should be a little padding of the breast. Yuuri gives thanks that he is not laced to the point of breathlessness, the nightmare tale of the west.  
Only when he is fully dressed does he greet Babicheva in the outer room. As an alpha and a non-relative, her coming even this far could be disputed. Still, he gives his best curtsey and turns under her instruction without batting an eye.  
‘Is it to your liking?’  
‘Very much so,’ he rushes to assure her. In fact, it is eerily in line with his tastes. The base colour is pleasant, but unassuming. It relies on the beauty of the lace and stitching to have character enough, and begs no jewels to ornament. Perhaps it is a little on the simpler side, but he is confident it will not draw a critical eye.  
‘Good. You wear it well.’ She casts her gaze at his waist, and he admits to himself that he does not like the idea of its being so fitted, so shameless. ‘I would tighten the waist if you can stand to bear it.’

 

-

 

She barely waits to be announced. ‘You caused such a fuss, cousin.’  
Viktor looks up from the missive from his steward with a frown. ‘Did I? I don’t recall.’  
‘Dress requirements,’ Mila says. ‘It seems your fiancée’s kingdom has never seen a crinoline before. I want you to know how stressed the poor darling was, finding clothes to suit your lesson.’  
His mood is sanguine enough to accept teasing. ‘I did not say it in a tone of strictness.’  
‘Yes, but I was assured that women’s skirts here do not accommodate our sort of dancing. Your one idea has upset the whole fabric of society.’  
‘I’m very sorry for it, but I cannot imagine how such a staid culture could function if not for men like me to be the source of righteous outrage.’  
She shakes her head in mock despair. ‘You will perturb them too much. They are very strange, you know? They bathe naked with their own gender, yet I was not allowed beyond the entrance to the women’s quarters.’**  
‘What a spectacular idea,’ he murmurs.  
‘I don’t catch your meaning.’  
‘I should bar you from the women’s quarters except in our nation, too. It would save so much trouble.’  
Her finely pencilled brow arches. ‘And then where should I sleep?’  
‘Oh, I am not so cruel as to prevent you your own rooms.’  
‘If this is about the ambassador’s daughter –’  
‘It most certainly is –’  
‘I have not, and will not, humiliate her.’  
‘No?’  
He enjoys the indignation that is ballooning on her face.  
‘I –’  
‘I am only teasing you, cousin. Though liking an Italian is an unforgiveable sin, I believe you have committed no other.’  
She rolls her eyes, but the slump of relief is unmissable. ‘If you did not want me to comment on your betrothed, you could have said so more simply.’  
‘But I like my conversations with double purposes.’  
The silence hangs too long.  
‘Since the subject is so new, I suppose now is a very fraught time for me to ask you to let me have her.’  
Viktor cannot restrain himself from a little snort of laughter. ‘I am not the main hindrance.’  
‘Still, your approval would be invaluable.’  
He fixes her with an tired stare. ‘My approval? If the universe worked according to my designs, I would manage to have you and Yura brought together.’  
‘That will never be.’  
‘I am starting to accept that. Still – I will not answer you today.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with background Mila/Sara! What do you mean why? It just happened.
> 
> Also, Viktor is quite snarky in this, but only from a place of genuine affection.
> 
> *Okay, I think this requires explanation. This is somewhat strange and came entirely from my head as far as I know, so please bear with me if it seems strange. The Japanese tradition treats any alpha as male and any omega as female. Mari, as Toshiya’s heir, is the Crown Prince; Yuuri is a Princess. In the case of an unmarried person, Russian titles ignore dynamic altogether, leaving Mila, an alpha woman, with the female title (this would change, I think, if she married a beta woman or any sort of omega, because she would have to be ranked above them in importance and “Prince” supersedes “Princess”). 
> 
> **Similarly, Japanese onsens and sleeping quarters separate on the rule that one section is for “beta males + all alphas” and the other is for “beta females + all omegas”; the Russians separate the unmarried people into sleeping quarters by male/female. As Viktor is remarking on, the Russian rule does very little to restrain Mila, an alpha woman interested in an omega woman. 
> 
> The Japanese system is designed to take extra care in separating people who might be “interested” in each other. In this universe, at least, there’s little worry that a beta or alpha male could be attracted to an alpha woman, or that a beta or omega woman could be attracted to an omega male.


	8. Innocence so fragile

Nikiforov is already waiting in the small room that Yuuri uses for his dancing lessons, talking quietly with Baranovskaya. He is dressed in his own garb today, a dark coat of sorts falling to just above his knees, pale trousers below. Yuuri gulps quietly. It is unfair, that his shoulders should be so finely encased. The velvet ripples as he turns, teasing the muscle beneath.  
‘Ah, Yuuri. Ты прекрасно выглядишь.’ (You* look beautiful**).  
He knows enough Russian to signal to the translator that the man has a short reprieve. He fights to keep his composure. It is only a little compliment, and one that is basically mandated by the situation.  
‘Спасибо.’ (Thank you). He sinks into his best curtsey, and reverts to Japanese..  
‘You do not look at all surprised. I suppose the Princess told you of our exchange?’  
‘She did. I have been warned. The next time I make a spontaneous offer, I will give two weeks’ warning.’  
His eyes crinkle as he says it, and Yuuri fights the sensation that all air is being crushed from his lungs.  
‘I hope you do no object to the Countess’s presence,’ he adds. ‘She is intending only to observe, although she is the very best of dancers, and of teachers.’  
‘Hardly of dancers, now that the next generation are grown.’ It is the first time she and Yuuri have exchanged more than pleasantries. ‘But my eyes are as sharp as ever. And I am curious to see what the Italian has taught you.’  
‘She is not Italian by birth, Ma’am,’ Yuuri says, thinking there may be some confusion.  
She flaps her hands. ‘Italian school, Italian brain. You understand?’  
‘…yes?’  
Nikiforov takes his cue to intervene. ‘Come, my Yuuri, I have only so much time with you and I did not purpose to spend it talking.’  
As they move to the centre of the room, Yuuri chances a whisper. ‘Она меня пугает.’ (She scares me).  
The alpha gives a throaty chuckle that is all too pleasant. ‘Она любит, когда ее ученики пугаются.' (She likes when her students are scared).  
It is too much, too fast. Yuuri shakes his head, disappointed that his grasp of the language cannot continue to hold. Nikiforov shrugs good-naturedly, and signals that their translator come closer. Yuuri spares a moment to wonder how the poor man is meant to keep pace with them as they move around the room.  
‘You are aware, I suppose, that most of our dancing is paired?’  
‘Yes.’  
‘I think it will be best to teach you the steps in isolation first. There is another level of difficulty in knowing how to move around your partner.’  
‘All right.’  
‘This is called the Mazurka step. Start with your right foot. The is a hop on the “and”. Step forward on count one. Can you repeat that?’  
‘Hop and, step one,’ Yuuri recites.  
‘Hop again on “and”, strike with the left on two.’  
‘Hop and, strike two.’  
‘Wait three. Because the music is in a meter of three, that is the entirety of the pattern. It can then repeat on the other foot.’  
'Hop and, step one, hop and, strike two, wait three,' Yuuri strings them together without being asked.  
‘Good. Your legs should remain slightly rotated. Not so much so as in ballet, simply as much as can be comfortable. I will demonstrate.’  
Nikiforov does a series across the room, and Yuuri keeps his gaze firmly away from the spectacular calves. 'I think I understand.'  
'Good. And since you would take the female part, you would have your arms in something like _demi seconde_ . Show me. I will clap.’  
Yuuri starts at the boldness of a strange alpha ordering him before the greater part of logic reaches him. It is how one teaches. Minako must have yelled at him a thousand times. (‘Good. No. Again!’).  
Though he is confident he has the sequence right, he feels neither smooth nor coordinated doing it, and the heavy skirt will take getting used to. Yuuri does three or four, as few as he may before turning back to Nikiforov.  
‘There is something else to it?’  
The man stands with his head ever-so-slightly on an angle. It is a look Yuuri knows well. He must do better.  
‘It is difficult to explain – it is a hop, but you do it too much. Try going forward, more than upward, and carrying the effort through to the striking foot.’  
He does, in a circle around the man, and by the seventh he is quite sure he has it.  
‘Still less. There should never be enough upward movement that the line of your skirt reveals your feet.’  
Though he is sure his heart stutters at the slightest thought of this man seeing beyond his skirt, Yuuri merely dips his head. ‘I will try again.’  
The sixth attempt breaks the pattern. Yuuri turns to Nikiforov to see a smile on his face. ‘That is perfect. You are quick to learn.’  
‘Thank you,’ Yuuri murmurs.  
‘This next step is to travel sideways or circular, as opposed to the forward one you have just learned, and there is a little turning involved. Do you prefer to turn to the right or left?’  
‘The right.’  
‘Good, we are the same. That will make you easier to teach. So. Going rightwards, step with the right on one, step with left behind on two, spring and wrap the raised foot three, spring on each of four, five, six.’  
Count three appears awfully similar to a _temps levé_ with _balloné_. He asks, and is rewarded with another smile.  
‘You do not think us very original? I will swear that the French stole from us, rather than us stealing from the French.’ He taps a finger against his lips. ‘Although truthfully, the whole dance is Polish in origin.’  
Yuuri does not want to admit he does not know the place of which Nikiforov is speaking, but he supposes it must be another country. ‘How does admitting to one theft redeem you from the other?’  
‘Who said aught of stealing? If we conquer Poland, their dances are rightfully ours,’ Nikiforov says with blithe gaiety, and Yuuri is struck with the reminder that this is the man who sits on top of an Empire. He has a moment of sympathy for Poland, who he can only surmise has been swallowed by its neighbour’s expansion. Does Nikiforov realise the power he treads upon? Surely he must.  
‘You have grown so serious all of a sudden, Have I upset you?’  
‘No! I was elsewhere. Please, continue.’

  

Learning from the Russian is exhilarating. He is constantly present, pressing flitting touches to Yuuri’s elbows, his shoulders, his chin, with a sculptor’s determination.  
‘A little more – yes, that is better. You must not be afraid to hold your jaw high in his dance.’  
That concept by itself is utterly alien. Yuuri is used to being expected to keep his head lowered and his glands covered. Still, he tries to please. After another hour, Nikiforov signals a halt.  
‘I think we will have to adjourn soon. But I should like to try with you once.’  
A hand settles on his waist as though it were the most natural action in the world. The alpha above him breathes in to start humming, and suddenly he is on his knees.  
‘Yuuri?’ That’s Nikiforov’s voice, playing at the lower end of his register.  
He is pressing the back of his hand to his nose, trying to ignore the twin reeks of lust and concern. He’s never had to deal with this before. In his coddled, virginal life, Yuuri has not been within metres of an unmated alpha in years. He has very little in the way of defence mechanisms should one wander by with sex-heavy pheromones.  
It is the kind of playful start to a rut that an alpha without a bond will induce every month or so to see if they can attract an interesting or better partner.  
Baranovskaya lets out a harsh bark and Nikiforov steps back hastily, realisation dawning. An apology is stammered.  
At least some of Yuuri’s servants are on hand to help him get up from the embarrassing position.  
‘Thank you for the lesson,’ he says. ‘I will see you later.’  
He does not offer his hand for kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The familiar form: forward/improper to use on such little acquaintance (he would though, the massive flirt)  
> **Masculine adjective, in keeping with the earlier idea that Russia ignores second gender in most addresses
> 
> Okay also what is the name for that military-uniform style coat/shirt/thing?? It's been around for so long that I can't imagine it didn't get a name.


	9. Aflame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no update... oops? Uni + indecision will do that for you, I guess. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> I also have a tumblr now, if you wanted to say hi: https://mercrurial.tumblr.com/
> 
> On a side note: there have been a few comments that the formatting for this fic is weird. If that's happening for you can you please describe it to me? Everything looks normal on my laptop and phone, maybe there's something off in the HTML layout that some browsers automatically correct or somesuch? It's highly unlikely that I'll be able to fix the problem if I don't know what it is ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He itches somewhere below the layers of his skin, a feeling with no relief. The alpha’s scent will not leave his palette no matter how many breaths of clean air he gulps. He wonders if this is what madness feels like – the fixation, the isolation.  
At least the scenery for his panic is pleasant. He is tucked in his mother’s private gardens, underneath the momiji in all its glorious abscission. Her prized carp swirl near his feet, resplendent in gold and white. On the water’s surface the two are blurred, flora and fish, autumn in abstraction. Chiyo and Kiku, the pair of his handmaidens that had accompanied him to his lesson, sit on another bench to his right. The guards wait a respectful distance outside.  
‘Are you feeling better, Princess?’ Kiku speaks, her voice a surprisingly deep timbre for an omega.  
‘A little,’ he says, lying through his teeth. ‘Do you have more perfume?’  
‘Yes.’ The swabbing of his wrists is not the comfort he thought it would be. Wetness is slowly seeping through his undergarments, spreading beyond the junction of his thighs. He feels like an oyster after shucking, raw and formless. Gods above, Yuuri does not know how he husbanded the strength to walk minutes ago, let alone run.  
‘Perhaps a drink of water?’  
‘Thank you,’ he says, and one of them flutters away to find a glass. Perhaps if he drinks a lake’s fill the boiling in his blood will cease.  
‘Has anyone yet been alerted?’ he asks of the air.  
‘Ah. A moment, Princess? I will ask the guards.’  
‘Of course.’  
One set of feet patters away while the other returns.  
‘It is cool, but without ice.’  
‘Thank you,’ he says again accepting the glass. In fact, it is cold enough to make him wonder if his skin is burning, but he reasons that cannot be.  
‘Imperial Guard Kenjirou informs me that no messages have yet been sent to the Emperor, Crown Prince, or Empress. He is aware of the delicacy of this situation and wishes to wait for your guidance.’  
‘I thank him for his sound judgement,’ Yuuri says, and Chiyo bows before leaving again to relay the command.  
Yuuri is a selfish person, he knows. He chooses to withhold information that his parents and his sister will no doubt need to know, and soon, because he does not want to have to relive the moment in front of them. Despite a life of love, he is acutely uncomfortable with the idea of baring himself before anyone, of inviting pity. He needs to be able to talk with calmness before the issue is raised.  
He waits until both girls are settled again before asking the question.  
‘Both of you. When the… incident occurred, did you see aught that made you think it was deliberate?’  
One of them stifles a gasp. It is an accusation of knowing coercion, of _rape_. If Yuuri were to carry it further, it would be the death knell of negotiations – at the very least.  
‘I did not,’ Kiku says carefully. ‘But you would be the better judge, Princess. We watched from afar.’ Chiyo makes a sound of assent.  
Yuuri shakes his head quickly. The idea of his servants being prepared to lie at his dictation has always terrified him. ‘We are in agreement. I’m glad.’  
He lets his gaze fall to the water, ending the conversation. It takes too much of his energy to keep his heart beating steadily.

 

‘Yuuri?’  
As soon as Yuuko sees him she knows that something is awry. Damn best friends.  
‘Mhm?’ he says, though he doesn’t meet her eyes. Her inhale is loud.  
‘Are you going into heat? It wasn’t expected for another five weeks.’  
The other servants are dismissed hastily. ‘Please, don't discuss this matter in front of others.’  
Yuuko blinks. ‘They are your staff.’  
‘I cannot risk gossip,’ he says, going to sink onto the floor before realising that the bell-like frame of the skirt makes the movement impossible. ‘These dresses,’ he sighs forlornly.  
She comes behind him immediately to start on the laces. ‘I don’t doubt you will grow accustomed to the weight. You are strong, after all. I wonder how the weaker of their women bear it?’  
Yuuri laughs dryly. ‘I think being weak and Russian are antithetical.’  
‘You are growing up fast,’ she says, and he images her lips are pursing as she says it. ‘It’s to your credit as the Emperor’s son, I’m sure, but I selfishly miss my naïve little Yuuri.’  
‘You think I’m hardened?’ He twists to see her face.  
‘In the year since Nikiforov signalled his intention to come you have been schooled more strictly than our Prince. You were shy enough to begin with. Now I worry that there’s nothing left of you but politics.’  
A quick dab at his eyes leaves no evidence of the tears he almost cried. Yuuko watches with a knowing sadness.  
‘I don’t know what to do about today's incident,’ he confesses. ‘Even seeking my parents’ advice could lead to disaster.’  
‘You can talk to me.’ Her voice washes over him. Has she always filled him with such comfort? Certainly, as a child he had felt awe, and a sisterly love, but this feeling of protection is new. He should ask, only now’s not the time.  
‘Can you promise it’ll stay between us?’  
He’s been drilled that a promise, a bow or a handshake, means nothing. A piece of information is void once it slips into a single wrong ear.  
‘Yuuri,’ she says, sounding like she’s scolding a baby. ‘You know how bad my head is for these political games. Takeshi has to remind me who I should and shouldn’t be smiling at before every event.’  
So he caves and pours his heart out. He describes the betrayal of his own limbs as they collapsed and locked to leave him at the Tsar’s feet. He sees Nikiforov in his mind’s eye, staring at the hunched form at his feet with pupils blown wide, implacable and terrifying and perfect all at once. He murmurs how the longing has pulled at him ever since, to forget his duties and his reason and his virtue and to fall blindly into the arms of a stranger who smells like oak and nutmeg and snow.  
‘I wondered if time apart from his influence might help me recover,’ he finishes, ‘but there seems no help for it now.’  
'Perhaps. But there's no harm in trying,’ Yuuko says. ‘I’ll have all your things removed and washed thoroughly, and help you bathe.’


	10. And now he is gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry it's been so long. There are so many ideas for this that are spilling out into word documents and notes on my phone, but I'm afraid I simply don't seem to have enough writing experience to get those ordered and into chapters of a good length
> 
> Also, I have already made one terrible mistake with my internal consistency so far and I've gone back and fixed it. I hope I didn't confuse anyone at the time
> 
> With regards to formatting: is this any better?

‘You haven’t the time to waste with self-reproach. Go to their Emperor. You must make your case on the heels of the Princess’s.’

As much as he loves Yakov as his favourite uncle, there has never been a worse time for his bombastic urgency. The wake of his sudden stimulation and loss has left Viktor strung tight enough quake with every new sound, bristling with a violence he has no means of absolving.

Years of practice keep his voice airy, even pleasant.

‘I have no case. I blatantly disregarded my host’s generosity and nearly forced myself upon his son.’

‘An event which the Princess will no doubt report to his father in the strongest language he possesses, and have the Emperor baying for your blood!’

‘You exaggerate,’ he says. ‘I have damaged the relationship, certainly, perhaps beyond repair. But Yuuri Katsuki is not vengeful, and Toshiya Katsuki is not stupid. I will apologise and we will be firmly invited to the farthest part of the country until the sea permits us passage home, and perhaps there will be some opportunity for negotiations in the future.’

Yakov’s lips fold slightly back from his teeth, which grates at something deep inside Viktor. He retreats deeper into himself.

‘Just because you have made correct predictions before, you cannot act as though the whole world will fall into place as you describe it. What if their Emperor decides he will go to war? What if a mutual hatred of you drives Japan and China together? Stranger things have happened across the course of history.’

‘Yakov, I do not want your lectures. I have made a plan and will act accordingly.’

‘My lectures? My _lectures_? You chose me to advise you, if you would care to remember. It should have been easy to secure the Emperor’s loyalty. Japan has desperate need of partners, coming into the world as they are. You would have them in the palm of your hand had you not done the stupidest thing possible and reminded Katsuki, a notorious family man, that he is a father! The most rational man is an idiot when he thinks of his children!’

‘I will honour the Emperor’s pledge to good faith. To do any less would be to mock him still further.’

‘Do you have any idea of the danger you are in?’ Yakov grates. ‘If Katsuki were to call for your head there would be no stopping him. My guess is that we are outnumbered six to one in this palace.’

‘I am going to rest for two hours. I will not be disturbed by you or anyone else during that time. Do I make myself understood?’

He doesn’t miss Yakov’s muttering. ‘Did you listen to a word I said? Headstrong boy!’

 

Viktor throws himself on his bed fully clothed, rationing himself one curse. The single syllable rips out of his mouth too easily, dissipating into the cool air before he’s had time to find the joy in being immature. The image before his eyes refuses to change. Yuuri, on his knees. Yuuri, at his feet. Yuuri, trembling, overwhelmed, liquid dark eyes like a trapped doe’s. He has always held his self-control in such high esteem, he thinks with bitterness. For all the warnings hissed in his ears, none of the dozens of omegas paraded at a distance had ever transfixed him. They were lovely, to be sure, but so were many of the men and women who he was at liberty to speak to. Sex itself was enjoyable, but he spared little effort in the pursuit of it.

When he stepped close to Yuuri in their introduction he had felt nothing new stir. Even as he watched Yuuri dance to the beat of his hands, he had been sure there was no danger. To be sure, he was beguiled, but such was the essence of the art. If each movement challenged his breath, it was because of the comfort with which the omega melded to a song he had yet to hear. Even when Yuuri had been coaxed to raise his head and expose the clear line of his throat, it had been no more than a twinge in Viktor’s gut.

He remembers seeing a sheen on Yuuri’s brow: sweat must have wicked away the careful layers of perfume on his glands. In stepping close Viktor had caught his first true scent of an omega, and he was stupefied with a want so fierce it felt like rage.

That must have been how he forced Yuuri to his knees, an outpouring of his lust-mad scent. At the time understanding had failed him. He had seen only an omega at his feet, had imagined it was because Yuuri had somehow been injured, had been caught between concern and a desperate awareness of the closeness of Yuuri’s mouth to his groin. Viktor had been stupefied by his own arousal. God, he thinks he wouldn’t have lost his head completely and reached for Yuuri, but even now there is a part of his brain that whispers he should have wound his hands through the spilling hair and dragged the unresisting form between his legs, or pushed him to the floor and mounted –

He cannot imagine an apology that would suffice. To ignore the wishes of a mind for its body, to force it into some other state – it has different names depending on the violation; rape, assault, murder – but all crimes come to a central theme: a contempt for the notion of autonomy. And what’s worst of all is that he can hardly think himself sincere in his regret. He thinks of Yuuri’s rosebud lips and the chance he has cast even as he recalls his own behaviour. A howl is already building in his chest at the thought of Toshiya Kastuki driving him away, as he surely will. If the old wives’ tales are true his obsession comes from the perfectness of the fit between himself and Yuuri, and his fate will be to pine for the omega for rest of the course of his life, no matter what other happiness or love he finds.

 

\---

Such is the self-discipline that he has installed over the years, that when his ugly, silent crying is subsiding, Viktor falls to planning. Yuuri had been a coup to free himself from having to try to select from the best of a half-dozen or so daughters and sisters of very important men, men whose favour he desperately needs to maintain. But Yuuri, an Emperor’s son! It would not have mattered that so many were scorned, because Yuuri was above them all, and they would have had to accept Viktor’s choice with the pretence of good grace. Yuuri was a gambit he would end up wasting the best part of a year on, first with his lingering in Vladivostok to speak with Toshiya Katsuki, and then the journey to Japan and back. The news of his unsuccessful venture will arrive in Saint Petersburg before he does, and he cannot afford to be unmarried any longer.

One of his father’s brother’s daughters, Anna or Elizabeth, they are the most obvious. If he were to take one of them he could perhaps mitigate his uncle’s bitterness with a child of his blood on the throne. The perfect solution, it might be said, but he knows Dmitri Nikiforov too well to imagine he would be let alone. It would be Viktor’s luck, he thinks, to have his heir turned against him by the whisperings of a beloved grandfather.

Following Dmitri’s claim is the Pliestsky family’s. Maria Demidova, daughter of Nikolai’s eldest daughter, is fourteen now and therefore almost of an age to marry; Natalia Pliesetskaya, sister to the unpleasant third-in-line Ivan Pliestsky, is nearly thirty but still unwed. The former of those two options is definitely the better, with Natalia a renowned shrew of a woman and a marriage with Maria promising the Demidovs' support, but either choice will lose him most of his uncle’s faction.

Anna Feltsman would be a stupid choice. Her family is already loyal to his, and a beta woman will give him fewer children than an omega.

The Popoviches deserve a reward for their loyalty and Georgi has an eligible sister.

Anna Lophukina is the eldest daughter of a man his father really should not have wronged.

Maria Shuyskaya is a direct line to the Ruriks.

Viktor is tired beyond the help of any sleep. The thrill of his power has come and gone, leaving him shattered and burnt at twenty-two. Somewhere in the core of his heart he is growing a charred, horrible truth: he hates Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might help you understand who the heck some of those people were I mentioned. It started as a little side project to justify how all the Russians could be related without having the same names and then got a bit out of hand (on a side note I'd give this is 9/10. If anyone's looking for anything to make family trees this is really flexible and intuitive)  
> https://www.familyecho.com/?p=START&c=1761i0hevml&f=703646690308382702


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